


Jesse McCree and The Case of the Horny Husband

by Partymeowth



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Hanzo Shimada, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Power Bottom Hanzo Shimada, Spanking, Top Jesse McCree, but it just became a fluff-filled scavenger hunt quickly followed by intense fucking, i should add i know nothing about sherlock holmes so take everything here with a huge grain of salt, this started as a bad porno-like rp in concept, win/win i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 04:04:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14866251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Partymeowth/pseuds/Partymeowth
Summary: It all started with Hanzo reading a book.“Y’like Sherlock Holmes?” McCree asked.And the rest, as they say, was history.





	Jesse McCree and The Case of the Horny Husband

* * *

It all started with Hanzo reading a book. It wasn’t something that usually caught McCree’s attention; Hanzo read a chapter of whatever book he was deeply invested in every night before bed. But for whatever reason, this book had caught McCree’s eye. He had been peering at it curiously, even tipping his head back to try to catch a glimpse of the pages, and it grew obnoxious enough to prompt Hanzo to ask, “Can I help you?”

“Y’like Sherlock Holmes?” McCree asked, the tone of his voice hinting at something that Hanzo couldn’t quite get a read on.

“I find it to be an interesting piece of literature, yes,” Hanzo answered, not bothering to tear his gaze away from it. McCree fell silent aside from a thoughtful hum, but Hanzo could still feel his eyes burning into the side of his head, and finally, after unsuccessfully rereading the same sentence three times, he caved in to the distraction and turned toward his husband. “What?”

McCree shrugged, but the thoughtful crease to his eyebrows betrayed his obvious interest. “Just didn’t think you were into that kinda stuff.”

“What, _literature?_ ” Hanzo asked incredulously.

“No, no, just detectives and stuff, y’know,” McCree said, absently picking at a speck of lint clinging to the blanket. Hanzo stared blankly at him until he finally elaborated, “The whole murder mystery thing, where some guy wearin’ a hat and smokin’ a pipe solves a case for some pretty dame or whatever.”

Hanzo narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What are you getting at, Jesse?”

“Nothin’ at all. Just…” McCree lifted his head back up, and there was a very meaningful glint to his eye as he very pointedly simpered, “it’s always nice t’know where your interests lie.”

_Oh._ Hanzo recognized that look. He snapped his book shut—though not before slipping his holographic wolf bookmark into the crease of the page he was on—and relinquished his attention to McCree. “Is that so?”

A smirk graced McCree’s face, and now he purposefully avoided Hanzo’s eye, lounging against his pillowcase and observing the ceiling. “Yeah, I dunno. Always a little flatterin’ t’see your ‘thing’ with hats is pretty consistent.”

Heat grazed over Hanzo’s cheeks, his expression twisting as he felt conflicted on how to react to that brazen statement. “I… do not have a _‘thing_.’”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Disbelief colored those two words, and Hanzo bristled somewhat. No way in hell was he going to admit to having as lame of a kink as someone just _wearing a hat._

“I never said I find detectives _attractive_. I merely said I enjoy the genre,” he argued, crossing his arms.

“So y’don’t think it’d be hot if one of us wore a detective outfit then?” McCree asked the damning question as casually as one might talk about the weather. The only sign that he was at all abashed by the conversation was his inability to glance in Hanzo’s direction. His concentrated gaze remained on the clearly _far_ more interesting ceiling. “Could get one of those lil caps and a jacket, solve a case together or somethin’.”

“That is hardly an arousing scenario,” Hanzo scoffed, avoiding the true center of the question and ignoring the way he impulsively squirmed when considering what Jesse might look like when donning a dapper Sherlock Holmes look. If the triumphant twitch of McCree’s smile was anything to go by, the slight movement hadn’t slipped by his notice.

“Well, it’d give us a reason to celebrate,” McCree pointed out suggestively, and Hanzo’s blatant tells must’ve reassured him enough for him to finally tear his focus from the dumb ceiling and return it where it belonged. “And seein’ as you’re the best prize I can think of, I’m sure I could find somethin’ to get ya all riled up about.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Hanzo knew he should find it ridiculous, but the heat clustering his face was beginning to invade his brain as well, diverting his thoughts to things of a more serious nature.

“So, let me get this straight,” he began, pausing to level his husband with a flat look when he chuckled at the irony of the statement, before pressing on, “You are suggesting that we enact a murder mystery… and then fuck afterward?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t object to skippin’ the whole ‘murder mystery’ thing altogether if ya wanted,” McCree shrugged. Hanzo only looked more unimpressed, if possible, and McCree responded more earnestly, “But yeah, hon, that _is_ what I’m suggestin’. Y’know I’m always up for tryin’ just about anythin’. Within reason, o’course.”

Hanzo tipped his head to the side as he contemplated the offer. There was no real harm in trying it out, after all. McCree wasn’t the type to actually judge him for an absurd kink, and this one was substantially harmless compared to a few others they had ran through in the past. Worst case scenario, they derived no actual pleasure from the costumes themselves and searched for something else to get them in the mood. Besides, it wasn’t as though they weren’t going to shed the clothes in the end anyway.

But then, if it turned out he _did_ enjoy this whole pretend-detective thing, he would be feeding into the assumption that he had a _‘thing’_ for hats. And something about that was proving to be quite the jab to his dignity. Hanzo Shimada, a hat man? It would turn him into a laughing stock if Genji ever caught wind of it. Not that he thought McCree would go gossiping about his husband’s kinks to said husband’s brother, but the risk of Genji sniffing out such a goldmine of a rumor was far too high. And for something like that to ride the coattails of the freshly-recirculating rumor of his ‘thing’ for cowboys—which he’d proven to be true when he’d fallen head-over-heels for Jesse McCree, damn his irrefutable charm and good looks—would only soil his reputation beyond repair.

He must’ve been internally debating this for quite some time, because McCree broke into his thoughts with a gently proposed, “Why don’tcha just sleep on it? We can talk it over in the morning.” A jaw-cracking yawn and a powerful stretch that tugged the hem of his shirt up enough to reveal his abdomen flagged his words, and the appealing sliver of McCree’s slightly pudgy stomach was the last thing Hanzo saw before the cowboy clicked the lights off and the room was swallowed in darkness.

Hanzo blinked before reluctantly settling down, deliberation of a potential night to come still running rampant through his head. Warmth crowded against his back as McCree moved to snuggle against him, a broad arm draping heavily over his waist. “G’night, angel,” ghosted a soft breath over his hair.

“Goodnight, Jesse,” was Hanzo’s whispered reply, a resolve establishing itself into his head already as he shifted into a more comfortable position and let his eyes slide shut.

* * *

 

The next morning, Hanzo adamantly avoided the topic whenever McCree brought it up, and by the end of the day, it was dropped altogether.

Three days later saw a package arriving in the mail. Fortunately, McCree was on a mission at the time, so Hanzo didn’t need to rush to collect it before it could be stumbled upon. He ripped it open in the privacy of their bedroom, examining the fabric by running a curious hand over it. The cotton was pleasantly soft, and that alone had excitement buzzing in his fingertips.

He tucked it away somewhere safe, to be forgotten about until McCree’s arrival home.

And that day came sooner rather than later. The mission had wrapped up earlier than expected after a successful infiltration. Hanzo greeted McCree at the door only two days later with a passionate welcome-home kiss. He’d fretted that McCree would be too tired for what he had in store, and planned on saving it for the following day. But when they broke the kiss, there was a heat in McCree’s eyes and he pawed at Hanzo’s ass with such clear intent that it seemed foolish to wait. 

“I have a surprise for you,” Hanzo purred, leaning up to nip flirtatiously at McCree’s bottom lip.

“Oh?” Interest sparked in those gorgeous amber eyes. Something about that made Hanzo falter, wondering if the “gift” was more oriented toward himself rather than his husband. He pushed the worry aside; McCree was fairly easy to please, and had seemed rather keen on the idea when he’d been pestering him about it almost a week prior.

“Come,” Hanzo ordered lightly, taking McCree by the hand.

“I like the sound of this already,” came McCree’s perverted comment, but Hanzo readily ignored it as he led his husband to the bedroom. He ushered him onto the bed, where McCree instantly reclined into a more relaxed—and likely self-assumed sexy—position. Hanzo was loath to admit that he _did_ find it attractive, even to himself. So instead, he veered straight to the closet, yanked the door open, and bent over to fish around for the surprise. If he arched his back a little more than necessary in the hopes that Jesse was watching, that was his little secret.

He extracted the package from the clothing bin he’d been rifling through, tossing it over his shoulder in McCree’s general direction. He heard a loud _smack_ as McCree presumably caught it, then scooped up a pair of black leather shoes and flung those behind him as well. One of them thudded against what he assumed was the wall, while the other’s landing was completely silent, as it likely was either snatched from the air or deposited upon the bed.

“Y’nearly nailed me in the head with that one,” McCree griped.

“Luckily there is not much damage that could be done there,” Hanzo quipped. Whatever McCree grumbled next was too quiet to pick up on, but Hanzo paid it little mind. He would be stroking his husband’s ego—among other things—soon enough. He gathered his own supplies, keeping them out of McCree’s line of sight as he called back to him, “After your shower, put on what is in the package, as well as the shoes.”

“I’m gettin’ a shower _now?_ ” Mccree’s baffled question was met with weighted silence, which he broke himself with a loud huff. “Are ya at least gonna join me?”

“No. It would ruin the suspense,” Hanzo answered, growing prickly with frustration the longer that McCree stalled. “You need a shower, McCree, you only _just_ returned from a physically exhaustive mission minutes ago.”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna be doin’ somethin’ _else_ ‘physically exhaustive’ in a matter of minutes, so I might as well wait,” McCree groused.

“Please just do it, Jesse,” Hanzo sighed, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I need time to arrange a few things, anyway. I promise it will be worth your while.”

McCree groaned aloud, but the creaking of the bed signalled that he had obliged. His spurs jangled all the way to the bathroom, and only when the door snapped shut did Hanzo finally spin on his heel, balancing two full hangers on his fingertips and tucking a pair of shoes beneath his elbow. The dip in the empty bed was tempting, as it’d been a while since he’d lain in the lingering warmth of Jesse’s presence. He shook the silly longing off and promptly exited the room. He could enjoy his lover’s body heat later. For now, he had a “job” to do.

He went first to the powder room, where he changed into his pinstripe black-and-navy-blue suit and slipped on a pair of black leather gloves and a pair of brown dress shoes.

Then he set about wandering through the house and carefully placing “clues” in hidden places. Once that was taken care of, he took a marker with washable ink into their private study and lifted his shirt to jot down the final clue. Writing from that angle was a little tricky, but would be well worth it. McCree would really have to earn this one. He spent the remaining time tidying off the desk and dragging a wooden chair in from the dining room, and it wasn’t much longer before he heard their bedroom door creak open.

“Hey, hon?” McCree’s voice rang down the hallway as Hanzo flicked a bowler hat off of the coat rack.

“In here,” he called, running a hand through his slicked-back hair one last time before gingerly distributing the hat over it. He hovered near the dining room chair, elbows poised over the desk as he peered down at the blueprint he’d placed there, feigning concentration.

As McCree neared the room with clicking footsteps, he loudly continued, “Y’know there was a magnifying glass in there, right? If you’d thrown that package any harder, y’coulda broke...n…. it…” he trailed dumbfoundedly off, and Hanzo turned to see him standing in the doorway, appraising him with wide and hungry eyes.

Hanzo couldn’t resist doing the same. He’d long ago harbored a theory that Jesse could make pretty much anything look good, and thus far, he’d nearly always proven that to be true. Plaid had always suited the cowboy unfairly well, but this green flannel cape in particular accentuated his wide shoulders wonderfully. A little magnifying glass indeed poked out from the front pocket. The burgundy pants were tighter than most of the other pairs McCree’s wardrobe consisted of, and Hanzo took a moment to appreciate them. The unusually dignified shoes were a dashing look, and the pipe he was nibbling the tailend of was also a very nice touch. And then there was, of course, the signature Sherlock Holmes hat.

...Damn.

Hanzo liked it a _lot._

“Come take a look at this,” Hanzo beckoned with a small jerk of his head, pushing his fatal attraction to a damn hat to the back of his mind in favor of settling into his role. McCree remained frozen in the doorway for a moment, continuing to stare at him like a deer caught in the headlights. Another insistent quirk of Hanzo’s head was all it took to get him moving. As he drew to his side, McCree ever so slowly veered his gaze to inspect the blueprint.

“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously, somewhat muffled by the pipe hanging from his mouth.

“You tell me. You _are_ the detective here, are you not?” Hanzo teased, hoping to ease McCree into the roleplay without having to explain it outright.

“Er, right! You betcha!” The “detective” pinched the stem of the pipe and withdrew it from his lips to instead thoughtfully tap it to his slightly damp beard, eyebrows knitted in deliberation. “Lesse here… Looks an awful lot like a map.”

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” Hanzo deadpanned. He’d been unable to resist, and the baffled look that his partner shot him in response _almost_ made him feel guilty. But it wasn’t necessarily out-of-character, so he didn’t retract the statement, instead casting a nonplussed gaze right back at his companion and gesturing emphatically back to the blueprint.

“Ease up on the sass there, sweetheart. That’s no way to talk to your superior.” Despite the scolding words, McCree’s smile was all saccharine, lopsided and spilling onto the tail of the pipe.

“You are not the boss of me,” Hanzo sniffed with a haughty upturn of his nose.

“Yeah? Y’sure about that?” McCree’s voice dipped into the low rasp that Hanzo adored, and a jolt zipped down his spine in the form of a shiver. It was enough to tempt him into nearly breaking character; Sherlock Holmes was truly not in a higher position of power than Watson canonically, but Hanzo had no qualms with abdicating to his _own_ partner.

But he was also a known perfectionist, and deviating too far from their respective roles would allow for far too many probable errors.

So, it was with great reluctance that he answered, “Yes. We are of equal status. Partners, if you will.”

“Oh, _partners_ , huh?” Something devious glimmered in McCree’s eyes, and before Hanzo could even begin to guess what it meant, a broad arm was winding around his waist and pulling him flush against his lover’s side. “I gotcha. In that case, we oughta solve this case _together_.”

_That cheat._ Hanzo rolled his eyes, because of _course_ Jesse McCree would put more effort into sniffing out loopholes than into the puzzle itself. “Right.”

“Right! So this here looks like a floorplan of our house. I’m guessin’ this lil circle is a _‘you are here’_ mark, so this’s gotta be the study.” A mechanical finger rapped against the flimsy paper, indicating the pencil etching. When he looked to Hanzo for approval, he received a curt nod, then returned to his musings. “There’s a few other circles ‘round the house, each of different colors. So, I s’pose first thing we oughta do is… go to each of those spots and see if we find any clues?” Another quizzical glance was met with another confirming nod. “Gotcha. Easy ‘nuff!”

McCree scrutinized the map for another moment before snapping his metal fingers together. “Gotcha,” he said again, seeming so triumphant that one might have thought he’d already solved the entire puzzle right then. He rolled the paper up and tucked it into his pocket alongside the magnifying glass. “Let’s roll, partner!”

Their first stop was right by the front door, where McCree was quick to locate the first clue, resting in the soil of a potted plant—a feather with a slip of paper taped to the end. “It says ‘i’...” he observed aloud, caressing the scruff of his chin with the stem of his pipe. His expression brightened suddenly, a light bulb practically popping over his capped head as he jokingly announced, “I’d like to solve for $200, Alex!”

“You will need the rest of the pieces regardless, but go on, I suppose,” Hanzo allowed, admittedly somewhat tickled by his husband’s enthusiasm.

“What is _‘I am horny,_ ’” McCree declared with a toothy grin.

“Are you genuinely asking me to define that sentence, or are you just continuing with your absurd Jeopardy gag?” Hanzo flagged the question with an exasperated sigh, his tolerance with this tomfoolery draining fast.

“Both.” The feather wagged along with the casual pointing gesture of his metal hand.

“The definition is one you will hopefully learn first-hand should you solve this puzzle. The solution, however, is not the one you guessed.” Hanzo folded his arms and tapped the toe of his shoe to the ground just once, indicating that he would like to get a move on.

“Welp. No harm in guessin’, right?” Still grinning, McCree pocketed the feather and the piece of paper, then extracted the map, unraveling it with a little flourish. “So that was the blue clue… Heh, that rhymes.” Hanzo fixed him with a callous look, and McCree cleared his throat uneasily. “Er, right. No more funny business. This is serious stuff.”

“A life or death ordeal,” Hanzo put in, completely straight-faced. McCree was clearly taken aback by this new information, his free hand flying back to clap his hat against his head, as though his sheer shock had endangered its precarious position.

“Shit, really?! Whose life is on the line?” he asked, so urgently that it was almost believable.

“Our sex life, if you do not get a move on,” Hanzo said, but despite the grave weight his words might have held, he was only fishing for a laugh. He received one easily. It was hard to say whether McCree was sincere or if he only offered pity laughs to encourage the occasional rusty joke, but Hanzo found he didn’t mind either way.

They continued on to their next destination. Luring McCree into the kitchen was probably not Hanzo’s brightest idea. They were hardly in there for a minute before the “detective” began rummaging through the fridge under the guise of looking for clues. When Hanzo pointed out that a slice of Kraft cheese wasn’t a clue, McCree claimed that anything could be a clue if you really look hard enough. Hanzo still did not think one could look hard enough at _anything_ that’s sitting at the bottom of one’s stomach. But he digressed.

“It’s pro’lly in one of these cabinets, right?” McCree asked, as if he wasn’t already tearing them open and rooting through the piles of snack foods and clattering stacks of dishes together in the process.

“Maybe.” Hanzo shrugged, playing coy. “Who could truly say what a murderers’ motives are?”

“A murderer, for one,” McCree snorted. Hanzo glared at him hard enough for it to drill into the back of his skull, and the lapse of silence was cut quickly short by the detective poignantly clearing his throat and uttering a guilty, “Sorry, that was in poor taste.”

Hanzo harrumphed, tossing his head to the side in an attempt to evade the ever-dwelling penitence that was swift to nip at his heels. It was, of course, futile, but he turned back to Jesse regardless, visually clinging to the squared set of the man’s shoulders, utilizing his form like a lifeboat to hold himself above the surface of his rising lamentation.

“Lend me a hand, angel?” McCree’s voice was achingly gentle. He’d always been far more intuitive than he liked to let on, and Hanzo could tell that the offer was a silent atonement, as well as a hidden extended distraction from the quicksand of doubts that he was constantly on the verge of sinking into.

He accepted, advancing to his husband’s side, already reaching for a drawer that most definitely did not hold a clue. Before he could so much as touch the handle, his feet abruptly left the ground, and he flailed wildly in an initial disoriented response as McCree lifted him up. Two strong hands clutched him just beneath his armpits, raising him up and out, so that he was suspended in front of the cabinets. He grimaced as he was given a front row view to the tops of them, where a thin layer of dust blanketed the ivory paint and a few cobwebs wove down from the corner of the wall.

“See anything?” McCree asked. Hanzo opened his mouth to respond, only to receive a lungful of lint particles that abrated his nostrils. He sneezed, kicking forth a cloud of dust that rained down from the side of the cabinet. “I’ll take that as a resoundin’ no,” the detective snickered, lowering Hanzo back down to the ground.

He swiped an arm at his itchy nose, sniffling loudly. “Why would I have put something in a place I can not even reach on my own?” The nasally question accompanied a pout that was obscured behind the sleeve of his suit.

“ _You_ might not’ve, but the _killer_ could’ve. For all we know, he could be freakishly tall,” McCree explained, eyes round with earnest. His logic would be sound if the murderer wasn’t an obvious fabrication.

“Or _she,”_ Hanzo corrected with a final twitch of his nose, playing along anyway. “We do not know the gender of our culprit either.”

“Or the species,” McCree added, then promptly gasped as a thought visibly occurred to him. “What if the killer’s a giant spider?!”

Hanzo reacted with faux fear, eyes widening as he covered his mouth with his hand. “That is a frightening thought, detective, but certainly not implausible. A vile creature performing a heinous crime…”

“The thing could hold eight knives if it wanted to,” McCree murmured gravely, perching his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his artificial hand whilst the gloved one twiddled with the pipe absentmindedly. “Say, how many stab wounds were inflicted upon the victim again, Watson?”

The conversation was ridiculous, but Hanzo was too pleased by McCree taking the roleplay seriously to put a stop to it. “Why, I believe it indeed was eight.”

“By jove!” McCree gaped comically, and Hanzo couldn’t help but crack a grin at the sight. “These are no laughing matters, Watson. Our suspect could very well have four more hands than we do. We oughta keep our wits about us.” He feigned a scouting motion, pressing the flat of his hand to his forehead and glancing about the kitchen.

“Indubitably,” Hanzo said, and just that ridiculous word was enough to shatter McCree’s facade, a laugh bursting from him and dashing Hanzo’s earlier worries—his amusement was _definitely_ genuine.

It wasn’t long before the second clue was discovered. Hanzo insisted it had only been a coincidence that he’d had nudged the appropriate cupboard open, and that he’d only wanted a glass for water, as all of the investigating had left him parched. In reality, he wanted to speed things up a little to get to the good part, but McCree needn’t know that.

“This looks a lil like one of your ribbons,” McCree speculated as Hanzo made a show of chugging his cup of water. He watched from over the rim of his glass as the detective turned the red strip of silk carefully in his gloved hand, eyes squinting as the flimsy fabric furled in his grip. “Oh, here’s the letter. This one’s an ‘ _L_ .’ So we either got ‘ _il_ ’ or ‘ _li_ ’. Or maybe somethin’ else entirely.”

“There is only one way to find out,” Hanzo pointed out. And with that, they were off to their next stop—the bathroom. It was the powder room that he’d gotten changed in earlier, and thus the first piece of “evidence” that he’d planted.

If it weren’t for the fact that the item blended in with the setting, it might have been detected much quicker. As is, it took a good bit of searching before McCree came upon the clue. He’d even peered into the toilet bowl once, which got a laugh out of Hanzo. “Did you really think me so cruel?”

“Not you,” McCree said in a conspiratorial whisper. “The eight-legged killer. Spiders don’t got no sense of hygiene, after all.”

“Nor a grasp on the basic biology behind bacteria in the first place,” Hanzo concurred.

“Exactamundo. Now help me lift the tank so I can stick my hand in.”

After Hanzo frantically convinced McCree that a spider would have no business sticking things into _any_ part of a toilet, as the risk of drowning would be _far_ too high, he directed his attention to the cabinet beneath the sink. There sat the tiny tube of oil, and McCree cast a knowing smirk in Hanzo’s direction as he scooped it up.

“Edible warming massage lotion… Think the spider’s tellin’ us to spice up our sex life?” McCree joked with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Are you suggesting that our arachnid adversary is making a mockery of us?” Hanzo asked, adjusting the brim of his hat to divert attention away from the coy glint that he knew must have been lighting his eye.

“Of course. What else would you expect from a creature that takes its partner’s entire head off durin’ a steamy lovemakin’ session?” McCree stuck his tongue out in exaggerated disgust, and Hanzo mimed the action right back.

Laughter ensued, and their conversation about the disgusting mating habits of insects tagged along with them to their final destination. By the time they arrived in the living room, Hanzo was ready to switch gears to a more favorable topic. “What was the letter that accompanied our last clue?”

“Oh, right,” McCree exclaimed, taking the lotion bottle and spinning it around to scan the label for a letter. “Here we go! It’s an ‘ _A_ .’ If’n it spells out ‘ _ial_ ,’ maybe we’ll find a ‘ _d_ ,’ for ‘ _dial_ ,’... or it could be ‘ _ail_ .’ ‘ _Mail_?’” As per usual, he rounded toward Hanzo, seeking out his opinion.

“You could be on to something,” he encouraged lightly. He knew better than to think McCree truly required his aid. The man was far more intelligent than even _he_ gave himself credit for. If anything, his constant requests for support were little more than appeals for attention. Jesse McCree openly displayed just how much he thrived off of Hanzo’s praise, like a dog that could easily rely on nothing but instinct for survival but preferred to roll over until its master finally tossed it table scraps.

And so, Hanzo decided to sit back for this one, watching as McCree wandered around the room, delving between couch cushions and flinging pillows across the room. He clumsily combed through the bookcase, knocking a few hardcovers onto the floor in the process. Then he rummaged through the CD cases stacked beneath the TV. When all of these came up empty, he switched tactics, shoving aside furniture with his brawny shoulders. As much as Hanzo wanted to be irritated with the disarray that the room was being left in, he couldn’t help but find himself enjoying the show.

McCree knew that he was quite the spectacle, it seemed, because as soon as he caught Hanzo staring, he intentionally flexed his bicep and utilized his authentic arm more than he needed to. To be fair, Hanzo couldn’t possibly call him out on it; he certainly wasn’t about to complain when he was being given a gift in the form of bulging muscles.

Eventually, McCree approached the couch that Hanzo had languidly draped himself over. He blinked sluggishly up, feigning innocence. “Yes?”

“Sorry, muffin,” McCree said, a wide grin on his face. Hanzo tilted his head to the side in a silent question. “Gotta take ya for a ride,” McCree clarified, smile turning wicked as he barely gave him time to process what he’d said before he grasped the half of the couch that Hanzo had been lounging upon and lifted it up, putting the entire piece of furniture on a steep slant that sent Hanzo tumbling to the opposite end. His nails dug into the upholstery as he scampered to upright himself.

The couch nearly upended him yet again as McCree none-too-gently dropped the side he’d hoisted up, the wooden leg loudly clattering to the ground. The wind was knocked out of Hanzo as he landed face-first on the cushion with a dazed grunt. He peeled himself from the upholstery to fix his husband with a dangerous glare. A few mussed locks of hair were dangling into his vision, indicating that his hat had fallen off.

McCree’s hand was clamped over his mouth, a strange concoction of horror and amusement flickering through his eyes. When he spoke, he only slightly moved his hand aside, and his words were choppy, as though he had to swallow down laughter between each one. “Are you okay?”

“You,” Hanzo hissed, making a valiant effort to mentally inflict his own discomfort back unto his husband, oozing with chagrin, “are an asshole.”

That did it. McCree was incapable of holding back his laughter, his hands moving to instead clutch his stomach as he doubled over. Hanzo furiously snatched his hat back up from where it had toppled onto the floor and slapped it back onto his head, then rose to his feet. “W-wait, Han,” McCree choked out from where he was rolling on the floor, bionic arm reaching beseechingly for Hanzo’s retreating form and successfully latching on to his leg. “It was an accident! Honest!”

Hanzo stalled, glowering down at his groveling husband from the corner of his eye. He said nothing, though he did tap his unfettered foot, awaiting an apology.

“I’m sorry,” McCree murmured, as if he could read Hanzo’s mind. “Please don’t leave. I’m havin’ fun. Didn’t mean to ruin everythin’ you worked so hard on.” All traces of humor had vanished from his face, and his amber eyes glimmered with remorse.

Hanzo was willing to move past his little blunder. They were close to their end goal anyway, and it wasn’t as though he’d actually gotten _hurt_ in the midst of McCree’s roughhousing. “You are forgiven,” he said coolly. “Besides… we can not let the malicious spider pit us against each other.”

McCree was beaming as he relinquished his grasp on Hanzo’s leg and picked himself up off the floor. “Shit, sweetpea, you’re right. That’s exactly what the evil son of a bitch would want!”

With their brief dispute now resolved, McCree redoubled his efforts in seeking out the last clue. Thankfully, his massacre of the living area had not been in vain, and the havoc he’d wreaked on both the couch and Hanzo’s nerves had actually dislodged the final piece of evidence from where it had been tucked beneath the couch. McCree stooped down to pick it up. “ _Hah._ You’re not exactly bein’ subtle, babe.”

“I do not have the faintest idea of what you are referring to,” Hanzo played innocent, gazing innocuously at the riding crop that McCree had in his possession.

“Sure ya don’t,” McCree chuckled skeptically. Fortunately, he did not press the matter further. He flipped the crop over to find the written clue that lurked on the other side. “Huh,” was all he said, and when nothing else followed, Hanzo figured he was waiting for a reaction.

“What is it?” he asked, as though he didn’t already know.

“C’mere.” McCree gestured him over with a sharp tilt of his head. Curiosity beginning to mount into something genuine, Hanzo obliged, moving to stand beside him and peer at the small slip of paper taped to the crop. Before he could get a good look, McCree shifted so that their hips were touching, lowered the hand that was clutching the crop, reeled it back, and smacked Hanzo’s ass with it. His body instinctively reacted with a jerky recoil, but his expression remained pointedly unruffled.

“Very mature,” was Hanzo’s apathetic response, nose scrunching as he struggled to win the battle against the blush that was threatening to expose itself.

“Just usin’ it the way God intended,” McCree said with an infuriatingly charming smile. “But I really did find somethin’ interestin’. Lookee here, this’un’s got _two_ letters.” He brought the crop back into view and tapped the tiny piece of paper, then read the script aloud, “Says ‘ _Em_ ,’ and since the ‘ _m_ ’ is lowercase, I’m pretty sure it’s meant to be read that way. So if we put everything together… Y’think the word’s ‘ _email_ ’?”

“That seems like a safe assumption,” Hanzo assented with a nod.

“In that case, let’s get on back to the study,” McCree suggested, a wicked glint in his eye. “We’ve got a spider to exterminate.” As Hanzo began to take the lead, he felt the crop lightly swat his behind yet again. His pace did not falter, but he did direct a long-suffering sigh toward the insufferable giggling that was trailing along behind him.

When they returned to the study, McCree had settled into the office chair with an obnoxiously loud sigh, accessed his email on their hard light computer screen, then yanked open a drawer and pulled out a box of matches to light his pipe. Smoke poured from the top like a chimney, and Hanzo had to hide his disdain. It wasn’t as though McCree hadn’t smoked in the house before, but it didn’t mean Hanzo was any less offended by it. As the detective stored the matches back away, he adjusted the stem of the pipe so that it dangled from the corner of his mouth and said in an exaggerated accent that was not his own, “Hand over the goods, toots. We’re about to bust this whole caper wide open.”

Hanzo stared blankly at him from where he sat in the chair opposite the desk, then slowly said, “Jesse, that is film noir.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Sherlock Holmes is a detective novel that takes place in Britain, during a much earlier time period.” Hanzo shook his head slowly in a motion of disbelief.

“I _know_ that,” McCree snipped loftily, “They’re still both detective genres though, ain’t they? ‘Sides, you wouldn’t like my British accent.”

“Try me,” Hanzo challenged.

“Fine.” With a theatrical clearing of his throat, McCree put on an exaggerated British accent that would likely bring poor Lena to tears and said, “My dearest Watson, I do believe there is trouble afoot.” Hanzo bit on a knuckle to stifle his laughter, and Jesse huffed an offended sigh, dropping the accent as he complained, “See! I just sound stupid.”

“No,” Hanzo protested weakly, amusement twisting the word into a gust of air. “No, no, it… it is good. You should leave it.”

“I want ya to be _beggin’_ , not _laughin’_ ,” McCree grumbled, adjusting the brim of his cap in a way that could only be described as embarrassed. Hanzo’s mirthful grin melted into something more affectionate at the sight.

“Alright. You may return to your Hollywood crime drama voice,” he allowed, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back in the wooden chair.

“Thank ya kindly.” McCree straightened back up from the sheepish position he’d begun to curl into, setting his shoulders and bringing his artificial hand up to cup at the bowl of the pipe he was chewing on. “So here’s the scoop, sweetlips.” Hanzo rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but McCree ignored him, barreling on, “This here email lists each of the colors that’re on the map, see… and each of _those_ match up with the items we collected. So we just gotta pair ‘em up all good and proper, and we’re set.”

It didn’t take long for McCree to make the proper connections, putting each object beside the spot on the map he recalled retrieving them from and saying each color aloud. It was a smart tactic. Verbalizing each relation helped to solidify them.

“So now I just gotta match each color with these words here, that…” McCree’s theory dwindled into a considering hum, and when he spoke next, he directed it at Hanzo. “These’re Japanese, ain’t they?”

“Yes. A translation is unnecessary. You only need to memorize the words as they are, and connect them to the colors,” Hanzo explained, leaning forward and gesturing to each respective part of the screen to illustrate his point.

“Figured as much,” McCree mumbled, gnawing on the tailend of the pipe as his narrowed eyes darted around the screen, like he was planting imaginary lines between associated words. He spent a couple of minutes silently moving his mouth around foreign syllables, probably to lock them in place in his mind. Hanzo awaited him patiently, fingers drumming over the polished top of the desk to a made-up rhythm.

“Alright,” McCree announced, breaching the silence with a clap that cracked through the air like a whip. Hanzo hadn’t even realized he’d been slumping the tiniest bit in his seat until the sound startled him into jolting upright. “I’m ready! Bring on the challenge!”

Hanzo responded with a dutiful nod and got to his feet, hands moving to loosen the knot of his tie. As he unraveled and slipped it free, he quirked his head to the side to flaunt the unblemished nape of his neck. Then he snatched up his bowler hat and pitched it across the room, where it collided with the top of the door and sailed to an elegant stop, latching onto the doorknob so effortlessly that it looked intentional. His gloves were peeled off next, one at a time, each thrown nonchalantly over his shoulder.

As he advanced to his husband’s side, he preened under McCree’s awestruck gaze. It fueled his confidence, aiding him into keeping his suave demeanor from wavering. In one smooth motion, he rolled the office chair away from the desk just enough to give himself room, then dropped into McCree’s waiting lap.

“Take off your shirt,” he commanded, even as he already began to take the task upon himself, undoing the buttons of his white dress shirt and impatiently tugging both it and the flannel coat over McCree’s head.

“Woah, hold your horses,” the detective cried, scrambling to catch the battered-around pipe before it could hit the floor. Ashes spewed from the bowl, littering the fabric just as Hanzo managed to pull it free. He discarded the tobacco-reeking apparel, where it fell into a crumpled heap upon the floor. “That costume’s good quality, y’know.”

“Yes, and you soiled it with your disgusting habit,” Hanzo scoffed, mockingly flicking a finger against the side of the pipe. His attention didn’t linger there, though, instead straying to the presently uncharted territory of his husband’s shaggy chest. Affection welled up within him, his chest tightening as though his heart was growing much too big to stay contained. He couldn’t resist pressing a tender kiss to McCree’s supple pec. Faintly, he could feel his lover’s heart thud against his lips, its pace rapid, like a wild animal fighting to free itself.

When he withdrew, he found McCree staring down at him from beneath the rim of his hat, a deep shade of pink dusting over his cheeks. He seemed to have been rendered speechless, so Hanzo decided to save him from responding. “It would not be a challenge without a blindfold, now would it?” he asked, excitement already thrumming dully through him as he brought his tie up to his lover’s face, shielding his heart-filled eyes.

“Aw, but I wanna see your pretty face.” McCree’s pitiful protest was brushed off with an apologetic shrug that he couldn’t even see. Hanzo was careful to not knock the cap off of his head as he fastened the tie in place, securing it into a snug double-knot.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he inquired, holding a closed fist in front of his husband’s face.

“Uh, I dunno, three?” McCree surmised. Hanzo nodded, satisfied with his own handiwork, then tugged the drawer with the matches back open and began rooting through it. “Y’gonna tell me what’s goin’ on, pumpkin?”

“In due time.” Hanzo plucked up two cords of cotton rope. Gently, he guided McCree’s mechanical arm down so that it was resting comfortably upon the arm of the chair. Then he took the first strand and twined it in tight circles around his artificial wrist, tying it off with two sturdy knots. He moved to do the same to his flesh arm on the opposite side, and McCree huffed out a sigh that bordered on a grumble. It brought Hanzo to a pause. “Is this not to your liking?” His voice was hesitant, laced with concern.

“Oh, no, no,” McCree hastily reassured. “Y’know I’m into this kinda stuff, sugar. Just wish I could see ya, s’all.”

Hanzo relaxed and returned to applying the bonds. “Not to worry. You will see me soon enough.” His teeth pinched his lower lip as he tied off the rope, calculating his next words so as not to ruin the surprise. “Just to be cautious, you should select a safe word. I doubt it will prove to be necessary, but… you never know.”

“I gotcha. Lesseee, how ‘bout... ‘elementary’?” he suggested. Hanzo snorted and nearly denied him the right, in the event that it became a part of dialogue. But then he decided that it was probably for the best that they make it off-limits.

“If you are sure,” he conceded. As he situated himself, a puff of smoke drifted into his face. With a scowl, he seized the pipe, extinguishing the flame with a sharp wave of his hand. He expected his frustrated action to be met with an objection, but instead received a hearty chuckle.

“Love when ya act mad as a hornet. Can tell it means you’re jus’ riled up.” McCree’s voice lowered into that sinful tone. The one that he knew set a fire to Hanzo’s insides, melting his heart into a puddle. “Sooner y’untie me, the sooner I can take care of ya,” he promised, and Hanzo fought to keep a receptive tremor at bay.

“Then let us begin.” Hanzo managed to keep his voice surprisingly even as he swiveled around to retrieve the first item. He deftly plucked the birds’ feather up by the shaft, then ever-so-lightly let it coast over the side of McCree’s scruffy jaw, just to wrest a soft exhale from his nostrils. Then he moved the downy object to a more desirable area.

McCree breathed out a soft laugh as the tip of the feather swept gingerly over his chest, buffeting thick thatches of hair. Gooseflesh cropped up over his flesh arm, visible to Hanzo’s keen eye. He trailed the flat of the plume down the length of McCree’s abdomen, watching as his stomach muscles jumped in response, listening to the little appreciative noises that tittered from his throat.

“It’s— _aha_ , it’s definitely the feather, so, _hah_ , that’s uh, kay-somethin’,” the detective speculated, jerking back involuntarily, clearly trying to retreat from the ticklish sensation. “Koo… _Kootso? Kutsu?_ ”

“Correct.” Hanzo grinned, secretly proud of his lover for actually getting the pronunciation right. He didn’t expect this to be a recurring theme, given McCree’s constant butchering of the English language, but he would take what he could get. He retracted the feather, tossing it carelessly behind him, where it fluttered through the air like a dancing snowflake. McCree slumped back into his seat. Hanzo couldn’t see his eyes, but the crease in the blindfold suggested that his eyebrows were drawn together in concentration, and impatience ebbed from every little agitated movement he made. Well, he certainly _did_ earn his first reward.

Hanzo kicked his leather shoes off, purposefully knocking them against the bottom of the desk to ensure the action was audible. Almost instantly, McCree’s furrowed eyebrows slackened in realization. “ _Oh_ ,” he breathed, and Hanzo snorted. A super sleuth only when it mattered, it seemed.

As Hanzo was retrieving the next object, something _else_ must’ve dawned on McCree, because the next breathless noise he made was twisted with amusement. “The blue clue was shoes, huh? Very clever, hon.”

“Hush,” Hanzo scolded, utilizing his sharp command as a veil for the telltale _click_ of the tiny tube being uncapped. The enchanting scent of fruit wafted through the air, likely giving the item away regardless. He delicately administered the oil upon the center of McCree’s hirsute chest, a concentrated grimace crossing his face as tresses of hair kept most of it from gracing his skin. After tacitly resealing the bottle and setting it upon the desk, he took his thumb and dipped it into the drop of oil, smearing downward so that it would seep onto his husband’s flesh.

He knew he succeeded when a powerful shiver ran through McCree’s body, followed quickly by a complaint of, “S’kinda cold.” Hanzo lapped the edible lotion off of his thumb with a vulgar sucking noise, and another shudder wracked the man beneath him.

“Not for long,” Hanzo purred, ducking forward so that his face was only inches away from McCree’s chest. Ever so faintly, he released a deliberately slow breath, watching as it caressed his gloss-slicken shocks of chest hair. An obscene groan escaped McCree’s lips, the fingers of his flesh hand twitching, as though aching to touch something other than the leather arm of the chair.

“God Almighty, that feels fuckin’ good.” McCree’s penchant for filthy talk was already coming in to play, which meant this game would be far more expedited than Hanzo had planned for. His weakness to anything that came out of his husband’s mouth was only more visceral when those words carried a delicious connotation to them.

He blew on the dab of oil a little harder this time, revealing his eagerness. He knew with each gust of air, the lubricant was heating up, setting his husband’s skin alight with warm tingling sensations. The lewd noises that fell from McCree’s loose lips confirmed his suspicions, and he blindly turned his head away, as though giving Hanzo more room to work. “Uhh, this’un’s yellow, so, th-that’s…” His voice tapered into a moan as Hanzo was unable to resist nibbling lightly at a dry spot on his collarbone, waving a hand in front of his chest to continue fanning the metaphorical flames of the oil. “Uwa— _uwagi_?”

“ _Very_ good,” Hanzo praised, moving so that the compliment ghosted over the lubricant. He indulged in a small taste of the strawberry-scented lotion, laving the flat of his tongue over it. It didn’t exactly taste amazing, but it left a pleasant buzz on his tongue. The groan that left McCree rumbled from deep in his chest, and the heat coiling in Hanzo’s groin reacted to the noise like the oil did to wind, flaring so fiercely that it nearly wrung an affected sound from his own throat.

He shuffled back in McCree’s lap so that he was practically perched upon the man’s knees, giving himself necessary space to remove the next article of clothing. Habitually, his eyes roamed down to his husband’s crotch, and he was pleased to see that his efforts hadn’t been in vain. The tent in the man’s pants was made even more noticeable than usual thanks to the fairly thin material… which also meant there was little left to the imagination, and Hanzo’s second biggest weakness was now being inadvertently exploited, leading him to make quick work of his next task.

He made quick work of the buttons that lined the front of his pinstripe suit, and the jacket rustled audibly as he shed it. Despite his growing arousal, he was not careless enough to toss a thousand-dollar suit to the floor. He meticulously folded it into a neat little square, then deposited it a safe distance away from the tub of oil.

“Was that your coat?” whimpered McCree, as though it pained him to not be able to see Hanzo peeling off layers one by one.

“Jacket, yes.” Hanzo smirked as the affirmation caused McCree to throw his head back and concoct an agonized groan.

“If I can’t see ya, at _least_ let me touch ya,” McCree pleaded, arms straining against the binds. Hanzo put his hands atop his tensing arms, pinning them in place so that he couldn’t disturb his restraints too much. He used the leverage to tip his upper half forward, so that he was nearly resting his chin in the crook of Jesse’s bare neck.

“And where would be the fun in _that_?” Hanzo taunted, grazing his lips over McCree’s earlobe as he spoke, reveling in the full-body shudder he pulled from him.

“Oh, I could make it _plenty_ fun,” the detective growled, still so full of bravado. Hanzo really ought to fix that. He mouthed absently at his jawline before receding, fixing his flustered lover with a sly look that went unseen.

“Hm… no. I think I find it more entertaining to watch you _squirm.”_ Smirking, Hanzo reached back to collect the next item—the riding crop. He lightly thwacked it against the palm of his own hand a few times, testing the feel of it.

“What’re you—“ McCree broke off into a yelp as Hanzo swatted the left side of his chest with the crop, the swift movement eliciting a thunderous crack as hard rubber met skin. He then lightly skimmed the edge of it over the rapidly blossoming red mark, soothing the blow in sympathetic circles. But he barely gave McCree time to relax before snapping the object against his skin again, this time just above his right nipple. The hiss it drew from him was like music to Hanzo’s ears.

“ _Fuck_ ,” McCree gasped, his breathing coming in harsh pants. Hanzo was pleased to see that the shade of his face nearly matched the impact wounds from the weapon. Rapid guesses followed suit, “Uh, shit—shat? _Shat_ -somethin’? _Shatsi_?”

“Now, Mr. Holmes,” Hanzo mockingly admonished, “I should hope we are not making false deductions on _purpose._ ” The crop slid up to rest gently beneath McCree’s chin, coaxing him to tip his head upward, the movement just as sly as his voice. “Or are you really that much of a masochist, _hm_?”

McCree mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “you’re killin’ me,” but the shuffling sound of him writhing in his seat mostly drowned it out. “I’m really tryin’ here, dollface.”

Hanzo hummed thoughtfully, releasing the crop’s grip on McCree’s beard, where it proceeded to stroke its way down again, catching a little on the slick that clung stubbornly between his pecs. “I will give you a hint, then.” The very tip of the whip dipped into the front of McCree’s pants, where its path was forced to halt, as he instinctively rutted upward and prompted the belt buckle to bite down and hold it in place. “It does not start with ‘ _when_ ,’ nor with ‘ _what_ ’ or ‘ _who_.’” As Hanzo spoke, he reached a hand down to fumble with his lover’s belt, unlatching it and freeing the crop from its restraint. It celebrated its freedom by slipping into McCree’s boxers and reaching its destination.

The noise that McCree made was nothing short of desperate, a sort of bitten-down moan as the whip brushed over the length of his hard cock. “Don’t think my brain’s rightly able to decipher riddles at the moment, sweetheart,” he muttered, fingers digging into the arm of the chair as he bucked into the petting motion of Hanzo’s weapon.

“No need for modesty, _detective_ . I have faith that you will come to the correct conclusion. So long as you use your _head_.” And here he dragged the crop up to the tip of McCree’s dick, eliciting a choked sound and an especially violent thrust of his hips that jostled Hanzo’s own hardening member. A soft hiss fluttered from his lips as he unintentionally shifted forward from where he was straddling McCree’s legs, so that the whip was practically ensnared between them.

He returned to his ministrations, and this time each little movement sent fire crackling through his veins. It was all he could do to keep from humping in tandem with his husband, minutely trembling from the effort. McCree seemed to sense Hanzo’s own self-inflicted torment, because his thrusts were becoming wild and aimless, and the only coherent word that escaped him was a hoarse “ _Jesus_.”

“ _Ah-ah_ ,” Hanzo _tsk_ ed scoldingly, but the chide was marred by pleasure, stuttering out in a way that resembled a moan. He removed the crop from McCree’s bottoms and was rewarded with the most pathetic whine as Jesse was left with open air. Sweat beaded the man’s forehead, and his chestnut hair was tousled this way and that, a few locks even falling in front of the blindfold. “You must make a guess.”

“It’s, uh, not when or wh—Oh, _why! Why_ — _shat_ —” McCree’s brilliant brainstorming was cut into by another strike against his chest, and this time when he lurched away from the crop’s assault, his hips twitched tellingly upward. Hanzo was close enough that the slight movement provided him with a dizzyingly small amount of friction. Twin moans fell from their lips, and McCree’s next inhale whistled through his teeth. “This’s torture for us both, darlin’. Why dont’cha jus’—”

Hanzo didn’t let him finish, mercilessly landing another blow on McCree’s reddening chest, greedily grinding forward as he did so. It felt _delicious_ , and only when the obscene groan that slipped from him seemed to echo off the wall did he realize that McCree had barely made a sound.

“ _Fuck_ , angel,” McCree whimpered, finally releasing the painfully tight grip his teeth had had on his lower lip. “ _Whyshat? Whyshats?_ ” he guessed frantically.

“ _Waishatsu_ ,” Hanzo amended. “Close enough. I will allow it.” The crop connected with McCree’s chest one last time, just for good measure. Then Hanzo scooted quickly back down his legs, so as not to risk succumbing to temptation and cutting the game alarmingly short.

He traded the riding crop for the red strip of silk, then pinched it between his teeth as he worked his way out of his shirt. The stifled air of the room greeted his chest as he pulled the buttons apart, and he nearly forgot to methodically fold the expensive article of clothing in his haste to pleasure his husband. He practically trembled with anticipation as he forced himself to take the time to store the shirt away properly.

McCree, for his part, was just as restless and far less subtle about it. “Lemme touch ya, baby, _please_. Wanna make ya feel good.”

The piece of ribbon in Hanzo’s mouth was buffeted by a harsh exhale. Nothing crumbled his resolve quicker than begging, and McCree always knew how to do it right. Setting the creased shirt upon the desk, Hanzo removed the scrap of silk, grasping both ends with his hands as he shuffled forward. He paused when he was seated in the center of McCree’s lap, reaching both arms back and draping the ribbon around the nape of Jesse’s neck. Using it as leverage, he sat up straight and steered his lover forward, and even thrusted his chest forward to provide extra assistance.

When McCree’s lips finally grazed aimlessly over one of Hanzo’s pecs, the detective released a breath he must’ve been holding. The nervous resistance that’d been stringing his shoulders instantly diminished, his head bowing forward by its own free will as he peppered Hanzo’s bare chest with sloppy kisses and hungry sweeps of his tongue.

Hanzo was loath to stop him, his own grip on the strip of silk slackening as he fell victim to pleasure. Lewd noises fell unabashed from his lips, and each and every one was met with a taken rumble from the man beneath him, the vibrations only enhancing his ministrations. As McCree blindly mouthed at his skin, Hanzo watched his bound hands flex against their restraints, almost by their own accord. It was such a pitiful sight that Hanzo nearly released him right there, and maybe that was in part due to selfishness, because McCree was clearly having a hard time mapping out his chest with only his mouth, but his hands always knew just where to touch, and _God_ what Hanzo wouldn’t give to feel—

His indecent thoughts came to an abrupt halt as teeth flashed over his nipple, shocking a gasp out of him. Pain mingled with pleasure, and _yes_ , _there_ was the wonderful cocktail of arousal he’d been looking for. “Again,” he rasped, and when did his throat get so damn dry? He swallowed hard, and his voice was clearer this time when he repeated, “Do that again.”

His demand was met with an eager growl as McCree obeyed, canines grazing over Hanzo’s nipple and sending a red-hot thrill through him. Vaguely, he thought about how this was a good way to shut his talkative husband up, but whatever bite might’ve normally resided in that snarky concept was nowhere to be found. A particularly sharp prick sent heat surging through Hanzo’s body as McCree sunk his teeth in _hard_ , sucking an angry mark just beside the sensitive skin of his nipple. Hanzo was powerless to stop him, scrambling to grab ahold of something and instead dragging his blunt nails up the sides of Jesse’s spine, earning himself an extra sting of pain in the process.

When McCree finally withdrew, the cerulean tail of Hanzo’s dragon tattoo was blossoming into a beautiful shade of red, as though a rose bush were sprouting from its shimmering scales. There would be time to add to the garden later, Hanzo decided, backing away before McCree could return to marking his territory. They were both panting so heavily that at this point it was hard to say who was more worse for wear. “We still need to—”

“ _Zubon_ ,” McCree shouted, voice ragged around the edges and shoulders quaking from barely contained desire. “The answer is _zubon_ , now fuckin’ untie me so I can ruin you more than you’ve been ruinin’ me.”

“Do not get ahead of yourself, detective,” Hanzo purred, removing himself from his husband’s lap. His choice to neglect putting on underwear turned out to be a very wise one, as it allowed his aching erection to spring free after slipping out of his pants. He hurriedly folded them and put them aside, now completely naked. When he climbed back into McCree’s lap, he seemed to immediately take notice, if the way his hips rolled beseechingly upward and the animalistic noise that left his throat were anything to go by.

“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me? You haven’t been wearin’ _anythin_ ’ under there the _entire_ time? _Christ_ , swear you’ll be the death of me,” McCree rambled, voice gravelly and thick with need.

Hanzo’s only response to that was an amused snort and an enticing wiggle of his hips. His bare ass dragged against the denim fabric of McCree’s burgundy pants, and his painfully hard cock rutted against the warm fuzzy surface of McCree’s stomach. He used the distraction to his advantage, covertly transferring the strip of silk from Jesse’s shoulders to his own waist, so that it sprawled over his cock like a lazy piece of lace.

“Oh, you’re really playin’ with fire now, sweetness.” Each time McCree spoke, it was in that low baritone that sent the most wonderful shivers down Hanzo’s spine, sounding just as wrecked as he did dangerous. “Just you wait. Soon as ya free me, I’m gonna fuck ya _so_ _hard.”_

“ _Hah_. You are all talk,” Hanzo said, knowing fully well that was very much not the case. He leaned forward and began undoing the blindfold with such deft precision that McCree didn’t even seem to detect the action.

“Yeah? Well, I’ll tell ya one thing,” McCree began, a seductive threat likely sitting on his tongue. The tie fell free just then, rippling like an ocean wave as it skated ceremoniously to the ground. He blinked a few times as he adjusted to the light, and then his gorgeous amber eyes widened in shock. Whatever he had been about to say was lost to the depths of his mind, and his mouth hung uselessly open as his gaze darted first to the words that Hanzo had scribbled upon his abdomen hours earlier, then down further to his ribbon-cloaked cock.

“Like what you see?” Hanzo was oh-so-smug, arching his back to brandish his wanting chest, but staying just out of reach of McCree’s drooling mouth. The chair beneath them began to rattle, as if even the inanimate object was quivering with lust. Just to rub salt in the wound, Hanzo took ahold of the ribbon swathing his dick and wrapped it loosely around his member, creating a satin hole that he eagerly began to fuck into. A groan bubbled up from his throat unwittingly. McCree’s adam apple bobbed, as though yearning to match it, but he stayed alarmingly silent, his face flushed and his eyes trained on Hanzo’s thrusting cock.

“You can look, but you can not t—“ Hanzo’s teasing words were abruptly cut into by a loud _snap,_ and before he could register what had just transpired, metal fingers were reverently petting down the side of his body. Sensitive and pent-up from going so long without his lover’s touch, Hanzo willingly bent into it, his hips stuttering in their rhythm. “I did not say you could—“ he weakly tried to keep their play going, but the words died out when he caught the ravenous look glinting in McCree’s hooded eyes. Hanzo was mesmerized by how depraved it made him feel, arousal humming like a live wire beneath his skin as Jesse panted dazedly above him like a starving animal.

Then that metal hand closed so gently around his silk-swaddled dick, and all coherent thought was out the window, heat rising upward and addling his brain. “Don’t know how you coulda expected me to hold back,” McCree croaked, his bionic hand beginning to tenderly jerk Hanzo off with the ribbon. “God, you’re such a pretty sight.”

His strokes were so gentle, as if Hanzo was a fragile thing that could break from the slightest bit of rough contact, and it drove him wild. Mindlessly, he palmed at the tent in his husband’s pants, aiming to rile him up so that he might touch him with less finesse, might tighten his grip and quicken his pace, might lose control to the point that even his authentic arm breaks free.

As it was, his flesh arm was presently stiffening desperately against the binds, the rope going so taut that it looked painful. What Hanzo wouldn’t give for McCree to grab his hips real mean and grind against him, to make him cum without even being touched. That thought alone was enough to prompt him to untie the last piece of bondage, his fingers slipping and trembling somewhat as McCree’s soft ministrations sped up a little, sending sparks of pleasure skittering through his veins with each smooth tug.

With both arms now free, McCree relinquished his grasp on Hanzo’s cock in favor of cupping both his ass cheeks and hauling him into a searing kiss. The satin was trapped between them, adding another layer of pleasurable sensations to the mix. It was so overwhelming that Hanzo couldn’t help but nip at his lover’s lower lip, eliciting a growl from him as he crudely groped Hanzo’s ass. Their kiss grew violent with passion, lips crashing together like turbulent waves, slick noises and obscene grunts punctuating each sweep of their tongue or flash of their teeth. Somewhere along the way, McCree’s hat was knocked onto the floor, and the soiled ribbon was quick to follow suit.

“Wait,” Hanzo regretfully breathed out, breaking the kiss and taking a much-needed gulp of air. McCree looked ready to leap out of the chair and ravish him, and as much as Hanzo would absolutely love that, there was still one last key factor they had to complete before they could _really_ get into it. “You have to read—what is written, here,” he managed, gesturing to the words etched in washable ink upon his pronounced abdomen.

McCree looked incredibly disheveled, the glimmer in his eyes bordering something frantic as he obediently read aloud, “ _Under the pillow._ ” His thumbs massaged circles into the meat of Hanzo’s ass as he processed the final clue. Without even looking struck by realization, McCree met his eyes and asked very plainly, “Is it lube?”

Hanzo blinked. Annoyance flickered briefly over him at how effortlessly McCree had reached the final conclusion, and the detective barked out a laugh. “I’m right, ain’t I! I can tell ‘cause you got that cute lil scowl on your face that ya only get when someone ruins your plans.”

“How did you know?” Hanzo grit out.

Beaming, McCree reached into his pocket and proffered the tube that Hanzo had tucked beneath the pillow earlier. “Already ‘bout ten steps ahead of ya, honeybee. Guess that must make me the greatest detective of all time.”

_No, it just makes you prepared._ Hanzo bit his tongue. “I suppose so. That means it is time for your official reward. So if you would follow me to—“

“Nah,” McCree interrupted, a devious shimmer in his eyes and a crooked grin on his face. “I think I’ll claim my prize right here, over the desk.”

Before Hanzo could object, he was being lifted into the air by the palms supporting his ass. His prosthetic heels instinctively found their place on Jesse’s lower back, legs winding around his waist to hold himself in place. He was carried over to the desk, where he was gently deposited on his back, his folded clothes cushioning his head. McCree instantly took to lavishing kisses down his jaw and over the crook of his neck, slotting himself between his lover’s legs so that his clothed groin scraped lightly over his leaking cock.

Broad hands carded through Hanzo’s hair, dishevelling his gelled locks into a disarray, before continuing their path down through his tufted sideburns, past his jawline, and over the sides of his body. The feather-light touches were a wonderfully stark contrast to the rough kisses assaulting his chest, intermittently punctuated by sharp bites that would surely leave telling imprints. The bristles of McCree’s beard scratched Hanzo’s skin, and though unlikely, he found himself hoping that they would leave thin red marks of their own.

“Harder, harder,” Hanzo chanted hoarsely, and McCree grunted in acknowledgement, teeth catching on his skin. A bruising bite was inflicted upon Hanzo’s collarbone, and he arched haplessly into it, wanting it to draw blood. McCree was either too kind or too cruel, for he withdrew before he could break the skin.

“Want me inside you, babydoll?” His lips skated over Hanzo’s chest as he spoke, voice hushed, as though burying a secret into his lover’s flushed skin. “Want me to bend ya in half over this desk and have my way with you?”

Panting, Hanzo dazedly nodded. “Yes. Yes, fuck me,” he murmured, no longer caring if his tone took on a pleading edge, just needing Jesse to take him here and now.  
  
McCree chuffed from where he’d been laving his tongue over Hanzo’s flat belly, then patted his thigh as he removed himself and straightened up. “Stand up and spin around, kitten,” he ordered, gesturing with his metal index finger as his other hand began shucking his unbuckled pants.  
  
With another enthusiastic nod, Hanzo complied, sliding off of the desk and briskly rotating around so that he was facing it. He wasted no time in propping his elbows upon the flat surface and promptly shoving his ass out.  
  
“That’s it,” McCree praised in a velvety purr, and Hanzo watched him step out of his bottoms from over his tattooed shoulder. Two broad hands came to rest upon the inside of his thighs, and an appreciative groan rumbled from the man behind him as his ass cheeks were gently pried apart. “Got half a mind to just eat ya out, make ya cum with nothin’ but my tongue.” Hanzo squirmed as a husky thumb brushed over his rim, his cock throbbing with impatience. “Would ya like that?”

It was a silly question, because obviously Hanzo would _very much_ like that. But he also was craving something much bigger than Jesse’s _tongue_ at the moment, and he was already so crazed with lust that he highly doubted he could handle much more foreplay.

“N—I mean, yes, but I—“ A frustrated huff escaped him as he fought for coherency. He caught his husband’s eye, and held his heated gaze in place, knowing his own must be glazed over with longing as he whimpered, “I _need_ you inside me, Jesse. _Now._ ”

McCree froze, looking like he’d been struck by lightning. “God _damn_ ,” he snarled once he regained his bearings, fingers digging into Hanzo’s thighs hard enough to leave nice crescent-shaped bruises.

Hanzo felt a hand leave his hip and watched as McCree began to reach for the lube that had been left on the desk. But then he seemed to think better of it and his hand veered toward something else that wasn’t in Hanzo’s peripheral vision. He heard something glide off the countertop and felt the other hand leave his body, prompting him to rock his ass back beseechingly.  
  
“Actually, I think it’s time for a lil bit of payback. Don’t you?” McCree’s voice was sinister, twisting like the smoke he often expelled, and for once Hanzo found himself craving the bitter tang of tobacco if it meant McCree would brand those whispered flecks of embers into his skin.  
  
“I,” he began, his own voice already pathetic and meek, his compromising position enhancing the feeling that he was completely at his husband’s mercy. “Fuck me,” he grated out, poising the words as a command in hopes of gaining a little leverage.  
  
“In due time,” McCree snarked, mocking Hanzo’s earlier comment. “Real quick, sweetness, tell me: do ya remember our safe word?”  
  
“Elementary?” Hanzo guessed tentatively.  
  
“Brilliant, my dear Watson.” Before Hanzo could react to that ridiculous statement, something hard and flat cracked against his ass. He cried out, swaying forward with the motion, hunching more dramatically over the table. “Y’know, it’s _awful_ rude to keep a man waitin’ for so long, angel.” Another painful strike nearly upended him from his perch on the desk, and he scrambled to grab onto something. His fingers found the soft fabric of his folded clothes, which he dragged closer and shoved his face into, muffling his next wail as the crop struck his backside yet again.

“Don’t think ya got any _clue_ what ya do to me. Got me so strung up, I can hardly handle it.” The crop paused, instead massaging soothing circles over the welts he had left thus far. McCree chuckled darkly as Hanzo shuddered and thrusted his ass back in a silent request for more discipline. “Or maybe ya _did_ know and jus’ wanted me to punish ya for it.”

The edge of the whip began to skim its way up Hanzo’s tailbone, its feather-light touches taunting him. “If ya want it so bad,” McCree’s voice was dangerously low, like the precursory rumbling of thunder before a storm, “beg me for it.”

Hanzo huffed into his makeshift pillow, adjusting himself so that he was leaning more heavily on his elbows. Gradually, reluctantly, he lifted his head and uttered a reticent, “Please.”

“What’sat? Could barely hear ya, sugar.” McCree was so very smug, and even the delicate strokes from the crop seemed to reflect his self-satisfied body language.

“ _Please_ ,” Hanzo repeated, with more urgency and volume.

“Please what?” the bastard asked, as if it wasn’t already painfully obvious.

“Please spank me,” came Hanzo’s plaintive whine, temporarily letting the remaining shreds of his dignity flutter to the floor with the rest of their discarded tools.

“Well, since ya asked so nicely…” The crop was reeled back, sweeping air over Hanzo’s backside in its wake. He clutched his folded clothes tightly, bracing himself. And yet even though he’d been fully expecting it, the resounding _wack_ of the whip flogging his rear end sent a loud moan spilling from his slackened mouth.

The sound of hard rubber thrumming against supple skin echoed through the room. Hanzo rocked into every blow, intensifying the delicious bite of pain. Heat mounted in his midsection, building to a dangerous temperature, to the point where his cock was steadily leaking precome. He was right there, right on the precipice.  
  
“Y’gonna cum just from this?” McCree sounded as wrecked as Hanzo felt, voice ragged around the edges and choppy with heavy breaths. “Gonna make a mess of yourself without me even having to touch ya?”  
  
Hanzo whined even louder than he’d been prior, because just McCree’s dirty talk was nearly enough to push him over the brink, and he felt the coil tightening, he was right there, one more spank and he would—he would—  
  
But it never came, and neither did Hanzo. McCree had retreated, leaving the cold air to caress the stinging hot pain that was radiating from Hanzo’s bottom. With a pout, he directed a wobbly glare over his shoulder, receiving a comforting pat to his flank in kind.

“Now, now. Don’t get your knickers all in a twist. I’m gonna take _real_ good care of ya, darlin’.” That whiskey-smooth voice added another rush of heat to the pool of molten lava that had settled into Hanzo’s midsection. Something clattered onto the desk beside him, and he glanced over just in time to watch a metal arm snatch the bottle of lube.

A click sounded, followed shortly by slick noises, signalling that McCree was coating his cock in lube. Hanzo folded his arms, dropping forward and resting his head in his elbows. He was so pent up that even the feeling of his own long locks of hair brushing over his bare arms shocked a shiver through his system. He blinked past the unkempt inky strands that were now curtaining his face, his breath coming in heavy draws, his knees trembling as he impatiently waited for—

And _there_ it was, a slight pressure as McCree’s slickened finger breached Hanzo’s entrance, punching the breath out of him. He insistently pushed back against it, helping to slide it in knuckle-deep. McCree only had to thrust it in and out a few times before Hanzo was already _aching_ for more, _craving_ that delicious burn of being stretched wide, _needing_ to be filled. “ _More_ , Jesse.”

There was a rough intake of breath before another finger slipped in beside the first. McCree made small scissoring motions to loosen him up, and Hanzo screwed his eyes shut and hissed, welcoming the twinge of pain that came with it. “So fuckin’ _tight,_ babe,” McCree said, and Hanzo arched needily into his touch until his fingers were as deep as they could go.

Desperate, he writhed and twisted, trying to manipulate McCree’s digits so that they would finally reach his sweet spot. And McCree, that smug asshole, remained perfectly still, watching Hanzo pathetically wiggle his ass around in his vain efforts. Eventually, McCree had pity on him and began to slowly shift his fingers around. It was when he hooked them forward and upward that the sparks Hanzo had been hunting for flared at the edge of his vision.

“ _There_ ,” he cried out, and McCree obediently curled his fingers so that they brushed against that bundle of nerves and sent another crackle of pleasure to the tips of Hanzo’s artificial toes. From there, McCree was merciless, jabbing at the spot over and over again until stars were practically bursting behind Hanzo’s eyelids. “ _Fuck_ ,” he swore between hiccupy moans. The tide of molten heat in his gut grew ever higher, until he was sure he couldn’t last this time. He grappled for a better hold on his now-rumpled clothes, a fingernail catching on a shirt button in the process. “Jesse, I’m so close,” he warned breathlessly, his cock twitching with his impending release.

And then just like that, all traces of McCree’s warmth vanished, leaving Hanzo abruptly empty and bucking uselessly into the vacant space before him. His dick throbbed painfully as it was yet again denied an orgasm, and the heat within him seemed to be chasing its own tail, maddeningly carnal in its need to be sated. “Jesse,” he snarled in a very different type of warning that was fringed with something frantic.

“Didn’t want the show to end too early.” There was a suspiciously sheepish edge to his words, and when he spoke next he sounded much softer, practically choking out, “I… sorta got a lil close too.”

“Oh,” Hanzo said, and then he felt Jesse’s hot and heavy cock slide between his ass cheeks, and he breathed out another, “ _Oh_.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” McCree exhaled, shallowly thrusting his cock into the tight space, the base brushing against Hanzo’s rim and prompting him to writhe impatiently. “Gonna fuck ya so hard, you’re gonna forget everythin’ but my name. And you’ll only be able to remember _that_ ‘cause you’ll be screamin’ it.”

“You will have to try _very_ hard to succeed at that large a feat,” Hanzo lied through gritted teeth, hissing as McCree withdrew.

“Trust me, sweetpea...” The tip of McCree’s dick pressed against Hanzo’s entrance, and he held his breath. “I won’t need to try at all.” Then he began to breach him, and Hanzo gripped onto the desk for dear life.

McCree sunk in nice and slow, and Hanzo savored the stretch, eyes glazing over as he lost track of how many inches had already entered him. Finally, Jesse’s hips pressed flush to his own and he let out a bone-deep groan that rattled Hanzo to his core.   

“Y’feel so good, sweetheart,” McCree whimpered, seeming to be anchoring himself with his tight grip on Hanzo’s waist. A sweet kiss skimmed over the junction of Hanzo’s neck and shoulder, so tender that he all but melted into it, his palms flat against the desk—and now that he thought of it, he couldn’t be sure as to when he’d lifted his upper half like this, but he assumed it was when McCree had first begun to enter him—and his back arching in a tantalizing curve.

More kisses ensued, marching from one shoulder to the other and then a little farther down. Sweet nothings followed suit, silky-smooth and rolling over Hanzo’s skin like waves of velvet. “So good to me, baby. Don’t know what I’d do without ya. You’re the best thing to ever happen t’me. Y’make me feel like the luckiest man in the whole damn world. _God_ , I love you.”

Hanzo could stay like this forever, swathed in his husband’s embrace, peppered in his affection and praise, filled to the brim with his cock. But he wasn’t naive enough to think that good things last forever. And beside, there were _better_ opportunities right on the horizon. “I love you too, dear. Now...” With a lascivious smirk, he rolled his hips back, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as he did so. “Do as you promised.”

McCree seemed to instantly get the hint, if the choked noise he made and the near buckling of his knees was anything to go by. “You got it, sugar,” he said with an almost audible wink. Hanzo reflexively winced as Jesse’s fingers dug into his flank. But then McCree started to move, and the pressure on his thighs became negligible in comparison to that of being spread open upon his lover’s cock. He set a steady pace, one that Hanzo sunk easily into, his upper half practically melting into the desk and his lower half eagerly raising to meet his husband’s dick as it rammed into him.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated only by their respective moans. Every time Jesse buried himself to the hilt, his hips smacked against Hanzo’s sore ass and sent another fresh wave of stinging heat through his body. “Say my name,” Jesse growled, something possessive flecking his voice. Hanzo opened his mouth, but an extra harsh thrust knocked the breath out of him, his body jostling against the hard edge of the desk. He was surely going to walk away from this littered in red marks and bruises, and something about that thought only served to excite him further. “ _Say_ my _name_ , Hanzo.”

A hand twisted into Hanzo’s hair, a fist curling against his scalp and tugging hard. A gravelly gasp was ripped out of him and he blindly whipped a hand back, clawing insistently at McCree’s shoulder in a silent plea for more. Jesse gave him what he wanted easily, railing Hanzo into the desk with every powerful thrust in and hauling him back by the roots of his hair each time he pulled back out. “ _Jesse_ .” Hanzo burned all over, pain setting his nerves alight and intermingling with the pleasure that was coursing white-hot through his veins.

“Good boy,” came honeyed praise, and Hanzo preened beneath it. Then a second, colder hand invaded his senses, shakily smearing something wet against the corner of his lips in a cautious request. Hanzo eagerly opened his mouth, granting him permission, and McCree didn’t hesitate to stick two artificial fingers in. They were coated in strawberry-scented lotion, which tingled pleasantly over Hanzo’s tongue. He moaned loudly, mouth falling open wider as he lapped fervently at McCree’s digits, encouraging him to shove them in deeper.

“ _Christ_ , baby, you’re amazing,” the words that rushed from Jesse sounded awed, and Hanzo’s jaw slackened as mechanical fingers rested on the flat of his tongue. His scalp burned and his abdomen rattled the desk with every vicious smack of Jesse’s hips. His senses were overloading with pain and pleasure alike, two fires burning so brightly that they had merged into one. Yet it wasn’t enough. He needed _more._

Drool dribbled into his goatee as he wrapped his lips around McCree’s fingers and began to suck on them, bobbing his head slightly in an effort to drive them deeper into his throat. At some point, McCree’s hand had dropped from his hair in favor of gripping his waist, his breath coming in vicious pants as he set a brutal pace. He was pounding away at Hanzo so roughly that he was already fairly certain his ability to walk tomorrow would be mediocre at best.

“Feels like you’re suckin’ me in from both ends, _fuck,_ like ya never wanna let go,” McCree ground out, sounding pained. Hanzo cried out as McCree drove into him especially hard, striking his prostate directly and eliciting an intense burst of pleasure that practically made his eyes roll into the back of his head. “Right there, huh?”

The hand on Hanzo’s waist roamed down to his thigh, then a bit further to the metal joint that connected to his calf, and suddenly his entire leg was being hauled up so that Jesse could plow into his sweet spot over and over again. The noises that escaped Hanzo’s throat were practically sobs, muffled by the fingers in his mouth. “Y’like that, honey? Like feelin’ me so _deep_ inside ya?” McCree’s raggedly husky voice grazed over Hanzo’s earlobe, and he shuddered. “Tell me how much ya like it.”

“I,” Hanzo tried, only for his voice to prove useless with McCree’s fingers jammed down his throat. “ _Mmngh_ , Jesse,” he whimpered, sticking with the only word that mattered to him since he was just this side of incoherent.

“There it is,” McCree purred, his metal fingertips clicking as they grazed over Hanzo’s teeth upon withdrawing. He moved it to the other side of his lover’s waist, bracing him with a vice-like grip. “Go on, baby, say my name more, say it _louder_.”

“Jesse,” he obliged, his voice but a wisp at first, like a fastly evaporating plume of smoke. Then he repeated it, louder this time, then again, and again, clinging to his lover’s name like a lifeline, chanting it like a mantra, “Jesse, Jesse, _Jesse_.”

Each cry of his name seemed to punch the breath right out of McCree, agonized groans rasping from his throat as his thrusts grew increasingly erratic. “ _God_ , Hanzo, I love hearin’ your pretty lil voice. Ya gettin close yet, sweetheart?”

Hanzo panted as he managed a tiny little nod. The fact that he could even comprehend his husband was honestly a miracle at this point, given the haze of lust that was addling his brain and the all-consuming fire that was building rapidly in his gut, dangerously close to tipping him over the edge.

“Good. Cum for me, Hanzo,” McCree demanded, voice tight and thin, like a string being pulled so tightly that it was on the verge of fraying. It was enough to finally, _finally_ push Hanzo over the edge, the pool of heat overflowing and spilling into every fiber of his body, the tidal wave of pleasure crashing over him so violently that it nearly swept him off of his feet.

He came hard, keening and grappling for purchase on Jesse’s bare shoulder, leaving angry red streaks down the length of his arm. The side of the desk was painted in spurts of white, a few even landing on the blueprint. McCree fucked Hanzo through his orgasm, holding him closer as he came down from the high and involuntarily began shying away with aborted twitches and feeble exhales.  
  
“You’re— _ngh_ —tightenin’ up on me so good, kitten... I’m... not gonna last much longer.” McCree’s hips were snapping violently forward, chasing his release. Hanzo wanted it so badly. He forced himself to go still by gripping the edge of the desk hard, using it to support his weight, seeing as the one foot he still had on the ground felt like jello. Oversensitive and pliant, he licked his lips and gazed up at Jesse, who was still pounding away. There was a fire in his eyes as they met Hanzo’s own.  
  
“Inside,” Hanzo insisted in a petulant wheeze, sounding as though he’d just run a marathon. “Cum inside me.”  
  
After a few more punishing thrusts, McCree’s rhythm stuttered, his hips pressing flush to Hanzo’s and grinding in deep. “Fuck, baby, I’m—I’m cummin’,” he moaned, and Hanzo could feel his cock throbbing inside of him, filling him with searing hot cum. Though his arousal had flagged, the heat pulsing inside of him seemed to reach his midsection, reigniting the molten pool and causing his dick to twitch in a valiant attempt to come back to life.

Spent, they collapsed into each other, slumping over the desk in a heap of tangled limbs and sticky bodies. McCree’s arms remained wrapped around Hanzo’s midsection, his plush chest heaving with worn out breaths as he nestled into his lover’s back. They stayed like that for a short moment, appreciating the closeness, the contrasting silence that had fallen over the room a peaceful blanket.

Jesse was the first to regain his bearings—or maybe the discomfort of their odd position had become too much of a burden—and he removed himself from their embrace. A chill sweeped over Hanzo’s back in his husband’s absence, but he lacked the energy to peel himself from the desk, instead shifting enough to be somewhat comfortable.

“That was good, Hanny,” came a lame compliment from somewhere near the floor.

“Mm,” was Hanzo’s noncommittal reply.

“ _Real_ good.”

“Mmhm.” Hanzo heard something rustle behind him, but he just figured McCree was gathering the costume back up. He couldn’t be bothered to move just yet.

“Don’t think we can say we rightly solved the case yet, though.” McCree sounded much closer now, a pronounced smirk playing at his words.

Hanzo blinked in bleary confusion. Finally coherent enough to take stock, he looked behind him just in time to find Jesse wielding a magnifying glass and hovering by his ass. He was aiming it right at Hanzo’s entrance as he moved an asscheek aside, revealing some of his cum that was beginning to leak out.

“What in Gods’ name are you doing?” Hanzo asked. McCree snorted, though whether it was due to the befuddled tone in his voice or the stupid southern expression he’d blatantly stolen from his husband remained to be seen.

“Lookin’ for clues.”

“Do you really expect to find any clues inside your _semen_?”

“No idea, darlin’. But they don’t call me _Sperm_ lock Holmes for nothin’.” McCree ducked out of the way just in time to avoid the lotion bottle that was hurled at his head. “That’s the second time y’nearly took my head off today!”

“Third time, more like,” Hanzo scoffed.

“Wait a minute. With that kinda a violent track record, that must mean…” With an over-exaggerated gasp, McCree pointed an accusing finger at his exhausted lover. “It was _you_ who committed the murder, you sly lil minx!”

Hanzo propped a hand beneath his chin and directed a devilish look over his shoulder. “It would seem you have caught on to my ruse, detective. You are far more capable than I had taken you for.”

“I oughta throw ya in jail for—”

“Ah-ah,” Hanzo interrupted with an admonishing click of his tongue. He spun around to face McCree, sitting on the edge of the dirty desk, metal ankles crossed. “I would not do that, if I were you. After all, I spared your life. Twice, might I add.”

“Thought it was three times,” McCree corrected with a wry smirk.

“Yes,” Hanzo hummed with a haughty upward tilt of his head. An amused noise breezed past McCree’s lips as he approached, setting his hands on the desk and bracketing his lover’s body.

“Seems I’m actually in _your_ debt then. What could I ever do to repay ya?” The absurdity of the conversation was not lost on either of them, mirth twinkling in their eyes as their faces drew closer. Silly little butterflies danced in Hanzo’s stomach, wings skimming over his core in foolish flits of affection.

“I have a few ideas in mind.” Their lips connected, eyes sliding closed, arms twining around one another as they slotted against one another like puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. If there was one mystery that needn’t be solved, it was that of their love for one another. For it always burned brightly, and even in those rare and short-lived moments when it would dwindle or wane, it remained an ever-present fact of life.


End file.
